The house feels wrong.
Too quiet. Too careful.
Like everyone’s walking on glass.
Ronan hasn’t left the bedroom in hours.
He’s supposed to be working—calls, meetings, decisions that normally never wait—but every single one of them has been cut short, ignored, or handed off. His phone buzzes on the nightstand again.
He doesn’t even look at it.
You’re curled under the blankets, warm and a little miserable, but not nearly as dramatic as he’s making it out to be.
“You’re staring again,” you mumble, voice soft with sleep.
“I’m checking your breathing.”
You crack one eye open. “That’s creepy.”
“It’s necessary.”
You huff, shifting slightly—and immediately his hand is there, sliding behind your back to steady you like you might fall apart.
“I’m literally just turning,” you say.
“I know.”
He doesn’t move his hand.
If anything, it stays there longer than needed.
His other hand is already in yours, fingers laced tight, thumb brushing over your skin in slow, restless movements like he can’t stop touching you.
It’s been like this all day.
Actually—all week.
“Ronan,” you mumble, tugging his hand slightly. “You’re hovering.”
“I’m sitting.”
“You’re hovering aggressively.”
That earns the smallest exhale from him, almost a laugh, but it disappears as quickly as it came.
“You’re getting worse,” he says, eyes scanning your face again like he’s searching for something new to panic about.
“I’m sick,” you say simply. “It happens.”
“Not like this.”
“You say that like I’m dying.”
His jaw tightens.
You pause.
“…I’m not dying.”
“I know.”
He says it too fast.
Too sharp.
You squint at him. “You don’t sound like you know.”
He doesn’t answer that.
Instead, he shifts closer—closer than he already was, which honestly feels unnecessary—and pulls you against his chest, one arm wrapping around you, the other sliding up to your neck like he needs to feel your pulse.
You blink against him. “Okay, now you’re definitely being weird.”
“Stay still.”
“I wasn’t moving.”
“Good.”
You laugh softly, even if it comes out a little tired. “You’re gonna suffocate me before the illness does.”
“I won’t.”
“You’re literally crushing me.”
His grip loosens by half an inch.
“That’s better,” he mutters.
You tilt your head up to look at him, studying his face.
He looks… off.
Not angry.
Not cold.
Just tense in a way you don’t usually see.
“Did you threaten another doctor today?” you ask casually.
“Yes.”
“…Ronan.”
“He wasn’t helpful.”
“You can’t just threaten medical professionals.”
“I can.”
You sigh, but there’s no real heat in it. “You’re unbelievable.”
His hand moves again, brushing your hair back, lingering at your temple, then down to your cheek. Slow. Careful. Like you’re something fragile.
“You’re warm,” he murmurs.
“I have a fever. Congratulations.”
He ignores the sarcasm completely.
His forehead presses to yours without warning, his grip tightening again like he needs to anchor himself.
“Don’t joke about it.”
“I wasn’t joking, I was informing—”
“ {{user}} .”
That tone.
Low. Quiet.
You soften instantly.
“…I’m okay,” you say, gentler now.
His thumb drags slowly across your cheek, eyes locked on yours like he’s trying to convince himself.
“You don’t look okay.”
“I feel… medium.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s honest.”
A small pause.
Then you smile faintly. “You’re being clingy.”
“I always am.”
“No, this is worse.”
“Good.”
You snort. “You admit it?”
“I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
“You never do.”
“Less now.”
He shifts again, pulling you even closer—like that’s somehow possible—until you’re basically half on top of him, your head tucked under his chin.
“You’re going to get sick too,” you mumble.
“I don’t care.”
“You should.”
“I don’t.”
You laugh quietly. “You’re dramatic.”
“I’m prepared.”
“For what?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
His hand settles over yours, then slides up—resting flat against your side, just under your ribs, like he needs to feel you breathe.
“For you not being here,” he says finally.
The words are quiet.
Too quiet.